


cruel world, i'm gone

by deadlight_s (scamsHan)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: (Not an affair fic but the want is there), F/M, Fix-It, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Smatterings of Infidelity, Stan Is Alive Because I Said So, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/pseuds/deadlight_s
Summary: After 27 years of a quiet danger looming over their heads the Losers Club crush It’s heart in their hands.After that:Stan goes home to Atlanta.Ben and Beverly go home together.Bill goes back to his books.Eddie goes back to his wife.Mike and Richie go on the road.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh (background), Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stan Uris (Background)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 151





	1. Derry, ME

At first Richie thinks it’s a trick.

“I’m going back to New York,” Eddie says nonchalantly, taking a sip from the hospital provided carton of cranberry juice.

The scene is nightmarish. Which, he concedes is mostly due to context. There’s the hospital room, with its eggshell colored walls and fluorescent lights. There’s the sound of different screens and monitors with their various beeps and boops, which have become both grating and comforting in their monotony. There’s Eddie, reclining in his bed, a pale blue gown covering the part of his chest where an alien claw used to be.

Richie almost drops the clear plastic cup of peaches that he stole from Eddie’s tray “You’re what?”

He wonders if they lost. That he was actually still caught up in the all encompassing pull of the deadlights. That maybe his friends were all dead in that sewer and he was floating there like a puppet on string.

“After this? I’m going back home.”

“Dude, you have a hole in your chest. You’re just going to live a life of solitude leaking 80/20 ground chuck?”

“Richie, I’m literally married? Myra would obviously be taking care of me.”

“Oh? You’re still doing that?”

For the past week, it’s just been the two of them. The week before that, Eddie had been drifting in and out of consciousness, a side effect of being impaled by an ancient alien clown god. In that week it was the seven of them, tired and covered in, well, shit. They were exhausted and covered in literal shit. The situation seemed pretty hopeless when the nurses of Derry General’s ER pried Eddie’s battered body from Richie’s arms.

“Yeah dickhead, I’m still fucking married,” Eddie grouses.

“Oh, I thought the fucking stops when the vows are finalized. Way to break stereotypes, Spagheds,” Richie laughs, an attempt to cover up the creaking sound of his heart breaking.

“I will take my bed pan and beat you to death with it,” Eddie says. Richie thinks he’s a tease. Then again, Richie was currently fighting the urge to take a sip from the carton of cranberry juice Eddie had drank from. The idea of tasting Eddie’s spit ricochets in his head like a ping pong ball.

The first few days of Eddie’s stay were brutal. Besides the one night where Richie was forcibly manhandled by Ben and Stan out of the hospital for a shower and change of clothes, Richie had sat vigil at Eddie’s bedside. His single hand grasped tightly in between both of Richie’s.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

“Yeah, Richie, why the fuck would I joke about it? I got to go home sooner or later. Everyone else has.”

Reality was rude in the way that it didn’t stop for their respective journey back to childhood. The consequences for the traipse about their hometown and subsequent fisticuffs with the sewer clown that was technically God had caught up with them. When it became clear that Eddie would recover, the rest of them had to return to their lives. Bill left first, unable to hold off the matters of his wife, his producer, and his movie with no ending. Two days later Ben and Beverly went to start their new lives together, while also tying up the loose ends in their old ones. Stan simply had work, not thinking to take extra vacation days with the justification of _Either we kill the damn thing and I’m home by Tuesday or we die and it doesn’t matter._ Mike, well, Richie had no idea what Mike’s plan was. He was under the assumption that Mike was making the arrangements necessary to get the fuck out of Derry for good. He still stopped by while Eddie was still there, but he hadn’t visited today.

“Yeah, but, I just thought, you know, that’d you be carping those diems or some shit, considering,” He gestures vaguely at Eddie’s chest.

“I mean, I’ll probably start eating cheese again or whatever, but it’s not like I don’t have responsibilities. Promises to keep and shit.”

“Yeah, but, come on dude. It’s not like you love her, right?”

“She’s my wife, Richie.”

“That’s not an answer, Eds.”

“Well, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me?”

“Come back with me, Eds,” He says, putting himself out there. “I could take care of you.”

“Richie, what do you think this is?”

It shouldn’t hurt like it does. After a lifetime of his motivations being dictated by repression and fear, Richie had once again made the mistake in thinking that after everything that had been done to him, he would be allowed just one good thing.

“I don’t fucking know, dude. I thought that after everything we wouldn’t keep doing the same shit,” Richie says, his voice pleading, desperate “I thought shit was supposed to get good for us.”

“We survived, Richie. That’s the good for us,” Eddie argues.

“So what, I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you give up? That’s not you.”

“I’m not fucking giving up,” Eddie slams his hand on the table tray. “I lived. I’m going back to my fucking life, I’ve earned that.”

Richie startles, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t cry. He will not cry. “You can’t tell me that this is the life you want, Eds.”

“Richie, I’m tired. I almost died,” He pauses. “I watched _you_ almost die. I just want to go home.”

If every ounce of hope had not been rolled and squeezed out of him, Richie would’ve said _Home could be with me._

Instead, he nods and says “Ok, Eds.”

It’s not a nightmare.

“She gets here tomorrow, when I get discharged,” Eddie says, taking another sip of his cranberry juice. Richie wants to smack it out of his hand.

It’s a fucking joke.

The next few hours pass in a blur. Richie spent most of them stewing in his own self loathing, even when he took a brief nap in this stiff green hospital chair that he called home for the past few weeks.

He’s positively civil when Myra arrives. Even moreso, as she wheels Eddie out of Derry General.

“I’ll text you when we land,” Eddie says as Richie helps him into Myra’s rental. “You’ll call, right?”

“No later than seven,” Myra cuts in, nudging past Richie so that she can be the one who buckles Eddie in. “He needs his rest.”

Eddie gives Richie a look that says _What can you do_?

Richie tries to give him one that says _Marry me instead_ , but instead he just looks constipated.

He leans over, trying his best to hug Eddie without jostling him.

“Oh, Eddie, your stitches” Myra chastises, climbing into the driver seat.

Richie jumps away, as if he’s been burned. Eddie does nothing to pull him back.

“Don’t forget me again, Eds,” Richie says, placing his hand on top of the passenger side door.

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie snaps before softening. “Don’t forget me either.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Richie closes the door, giving Eddie a thumbs up. Eddie flips him off. Richie doesn’t know what else he expected. Despite everything, it was still them. The car pulls away, leaving Richie with nothing to do but go to his gaudy convertible.

It feels selfish, leaving Eddie behind with her. As if he’s saying _fine, since he doesn’t want me, you take him_. But, that’s what Eddie wanted, right? To stop fighting, he supposed. They had done enough of that already. They killed God, what else was there to do but go home?

There’s a finality to it. One that was unexpected. Richie thinks he should be thankful, because he honestly thought this would end with all of them being dead, a valiant expression of martyrdom. But no, they’re still here, and the world was there with them. Bill still had his job. Eddie still had his wife. Richie still had, well, maybe that was it. Perhaps there was a part of Richie that was supposed to die in Derry, left at the bottom of that sewer. An old suit of skin, stretched bare and thin, ready to be molted. That it would peel away, leaving behind a form fresh and raw.

Richie foolishly thought Eddie was molting too. Not with him, obviously, he wasn’t that optimistic. But he was under the assumption that after they killed the monster that had ruined them beyond reason, Eddie would change. Would want to change. With Him. Huh, maybe he was that optimistic. Lot of good that did him. On the brink of death, Eddie had seen every single drop of gray water misery that saturated his life and even then, he went back. He gave up and Richie let him. It seems that Eddie wasn’t the only one that was tired of fighting.

Richie rests his head on the steering wheel of his convertible. There’s a knot in the back of his throat. He thinks this is where he starts crying, the cracks in his dam finally leaking. Instead, its laughter, pushing through his lips in choked sobs. His shoulders shake. He inhales deep and exhales a cackle. It’s maligned, broken up with breathy wheezes.

It’s amazingly on brand. He’s bruised, bereft and broken. Yet, Richie Tozier, after falling from hope’s precipice and plummeting to rock bottom, doesn’t cry. He laughs. He laughs. He laughs. He can’t deny that it's a little bit funny. After everything he’s done, it ends here: in the parking lot of Derry General. After everything, Richie lets himself go. Hilarious. Hysterical.

They killed God, and Richie was giving up.

It is at this moment that Richie Tozier realizes that, unfortunately, he’s still alive. He can’t stay here forever. Not in this parking lot, and definitely not in Derry.

There is the matter of going home. The urge to follow the lead of his friends, flying off to the corners of their own universes, itches at the back of his hand. Los Angeles, as far as Richie knows, is still intact. Just as he left it.

His career, however, he’s less confident about.

Richie pulls his cell phone out of the front pocket of his shirt, taking a glance at his illuminated lock screen.

It’s not devastating. There’s two missed calls from his manager, Steve, and a text from Stan that says _I’ve become overprotective of my sourdough starter_. For once Richie’s persistent cynicism works in his favor. He’s pleasantly surprised.

There’s also a text from Eddie, but Richie’s riding a high and isn’t looking forward to the come down. So he locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket. A rare form of self-care.

He could go back to Los Angeles. Grovel at the feet of his puppeteers and salvage the bits of slightly molten steel from the wreckage of his career. He thinks back to the two missed calls from Steve and wonders if he’s ready to have that conversation, to expose his belly and admit himself into the club of _Celebrities Who Had Public Mental Breakdowns_.

He is not ready to have that conversation.

He can’t go back to Los Angeles.

He can’t go home.

So, he drives.

If it weren’t for the clown, the child murder and the racism, Derry is a fairly quaint small town. In the space between summer and autumn, Derry sits in a sepia tone, the various foliage shifting from green to orange. Square, worn brick buildings surround the two lane road Richie drives along. This place was home once, and Richie can still feel it. A warmth worms its way into the small gap in his chest.

He wants to throw up, or scream. Instead, he keeps driving.

Richie stops at a place he doesn’t recognize. It’s an unassuming building. Square, with worn brick, just like the others surrounding it. There’s a moderate sized four door sedan parked in front of it, the trunk open and containing a few boxes.

Richie parks just as a man walks out of the building holding two suitcases.

Richie taps the horn, rolling down his window and leaning his head out “Yo Mike!”

Mike startles, almost dropping the suitcases. He turns around, lifting his hand and extending his middle finger while keeping a grip on the suitcase. Richie returns the gesture, then exits his car.

“I thought you were still at the hospital,” Mike says, setting his suitcases on the ground.

“Well, you know,” Richie leans against Mike’s sedan, crossing his arms. “Visiting hours ended.”

“It’s 2pm.”

“That’s what I said! I was putting up a good fight, until one of the nurses grabbed me by the collar and threw me out on my ass.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious, dude! It was a full on DJ Jazzy Jeff situation.”

Mike scoffs “You think you’re Jazzy Jeff?”

“I am obviously the Jazzy Jeff!”

“No, you’re Carlton.”

“You’re just trying to hurt my feelings, Eddie is obviously Carlton.”

“And how is Eddie?”

“I don’t know, ask his wife.”

Mike nods, understanding. “So, he called her.”

“Wait,” Richie says, eyes narrowing. “You knew about this?”

“I knew he had a wife.”

“Yeah, but Bill has a wife.”

Mike’s shoulders stiffen, eyes widening slightly. He starts to say something, then stops. He looks down at his shoes.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Mike asks.

“I don’t fucking know, dude,” Richie throws his hands up. “I’m just saying we’ve all got old shit and it seems the only reason we have it is because the fucking dipshit wizard clown that lived in the god damned sewers made us forget all the shit about us that was worth anything.”

“Made you forget.”

“What?”

“You said us. I didn’t forget.”

“You know what I mean,” Richie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just expected shit to be different, I guess.”

Perhaps that was the biggest joke. Richie, a man who had spent the majority of his life half formed and corpse like, expecting anything at all. Even funnier, is that he expected it from Derry of all places.

“You wanted him to come with you.”

“No,” Richie says, his voice wavering. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. I just thought we’d have more time.”

“For what,” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Fuck if I know. Anything but this, I guess,” Richie glances down at the two suitcases. “So, where you headed?”

Mike shrugs, putting one of the suitcases in the trunk “Anywhere. Ben suggested I go on a road trip, see all the shit I’ve been missing.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Richie asks.

“Not really,” he hefts the last bag into the trunk of his car. “But, what else is there?”

“You could stay here,” Richie winces, realizing the implications. “Or not. It doesn’t matter, dude. You can do whatever you want now.”

Mike slams the trunk shut. “No, I can’t.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

The two of them shift into an uncomfortable silence. Statements like _Stay In Touch_ and _Don’t forget us, ok?_ hang in the air. Richie places his hand on Mike’s shoulder, fully expecting to send him off with _Good luck out there, asshole_. What he says instead is:

“Need a co-pilot?”

Mike says what they’re both thinking “What?”

“I’m just saying, all that google maps and spotify shit. It’s easier if you have someone in the passenger seat.”

“Do you think I don’t know how a cell phone works?”

“I never said that.”

“Because I’ve had my phone for a while, I’m very familiar with how it operates.”

“Well, then you of all people should know that using it while driving is dangerous.”

“Can you please be normal for once in your life?”

“No, I had my normalcy ducts surgically removed as a small child. It’s why I’m aggressively moist.”

Mike looks at him. Really looks. His inky gaze envelops Richie in a way that makes him feel like he forgot to put on a shirt that morning.

“C’mon Mikey,” Richie smiles. “Don’t you like me?”

Mike rolls his eyes “Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s fair,” Richie laughs.

“You know I’m not really going anywhere, right? It’s probably going to be a lot of aimless wandering.”

“Oh, I love Mumford and Sons.”

“Richie.”

Richie removes his hand from Mike’s shoulder “You can tell me to fuck off, it was just a suggestion, yeah?”

Richie knew that it wasn’t a very appeasing offer. Generally, most couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him, let alone a midsize four door sedan cruising around in the middle of nowhere.

“What about your car?” Mike asks. “It’s not really a road trip if we’re in separate cars. That’s just two people heading to the same place.”

“You think I’d own a machismo piece of shit like that? It’s a rental.”

“I absolutely do think you would own a machismo piece of shit like that.”

“Yeah, well, go fuck yourself.”

“You’re really selling me on letting you come along,” Mike laughs.

Richie huffs, making a show of shuffling his feet “Mikey, come on, dude!”

“Alright, alright,” Mike says, putting Richie out of his misery. “I don’t get why you’re set on this. Don’t you have a life to get back to?”

A breath, almost laughlike, escapes from Richie’s lips “No, not really.”

Mike moves as if he’s about to reach out and comfort Richie, before opting instead to rest his hand on the sedan “Where do you need to drop it off?”

“My life?”

Mike rolls his eyes “You car, Richie. Where do you need to drop off your car?”

“Oh, uh, Bangor.”

“Then I’ll meet you in Bangor,” Mike says, walking around to get into the driver’s side of the sedan.

“So we’re doing this?”

Mike opens the car door “Seems like.”

Mike gets into his car and waves. Richie gives him a thumbs up in return, throwing in a wink for good measure. Mike rolls his eyes, swiftly driving off and leaving Richie alone outside of his building. Even in this temporary context, Richie was still not used to people leaving him behind. Ironic, seeing as he’s been left behind his entire life. He watches Mike’s car disappear around a corner, still not moving from his place on the sidewalk.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

Richie walks back to his car, and gets inside.

“What the _fuck_ am I doing?”

He sticks his key in the ignition, turning the car on.

“What _. The Fuck._ Am I _. Doing_?”

He presses his foot on the gas, and drives. He keeps driving. His eyes drift up to the rearview mirror, Derry and all of the severed pieces of himself, slowly disappearing from view.


	2. Bangor, ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! Just a quick update: In this chapter we introduce the use of phones and text messages as a narrative device. It is highly recommended that you have creator's skins turned ON when you read this fic.
> 
> For those of you who download fics/don't like having skins on, this fic should be coded in a way where the text will still be readable in a traditional transcript format! I haven't been able to fully test it with skins off yet, so please, if there are any issues with this, feel free to comment! Thanks!

It’s not that Mike didn’t like Richie.

“So,” Richie starts. He busies his hands, drumming on the tops of his thighs “How are _you_ ?” The _you_ is extended. Slow. More like a _yooouuuuu_ in an exaggerated comedic way, rather than an accentuated accusatory _you_.

They were driving along I-95, swiftly making their way out of Bangor at Richie’s insistence on _getting the fuck out of here_ after he returned his rental. Despite their traveling being aimless in nature, Mike is a very particular driver, in that his hands never leave the ten and two position on the wheel, and rarely does his head turn away from the road, even when being talked to by a passenger. However, he feels that the reason behind his strictness when it comes to the matter of facing the road is because it’s quite rare for him to have passengers. He’s out of practice with it. As he is with most things, like talking to Richie.

He’s very out of practice when it comes to having friends.

“I’m ok.”

“Really? Just ok?”

“Yup. Just ok.”

In the period of time that Mike knew him before their amnesiatic departure, Richie was a sensory creature. There’s a lesson in comedy that Mike had read somewhere once that said simply that one had to know how to _read a room._ Richie is very good at this. That isn’t to say he wasn’t inappropriate. No, he turned being crass into an art. One assumes that possessing knowledge would inspire someone to use said knowledge to make things easier for others around them. Richie does not do this. He knows how to read a room and works to do the exact opposite. He pokes. He prods. He sows discomfort. Mike never thought Richie was cruel, he just thought that Richie didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

“You gotta work with me here, Micycle,” Richie says, reclining in the passenger seat. “We’re about to be trapped in this sealed four door fart box for the foreseeable future. While I’m very adept at playing the quiet game-”

Mike interrupts “No, you’re not.”

“Alright so, fuck you,” Richie laughs. Mike finds he does this quite often. Richie has a variety of laughs. Mike assumes it’s because he’s made of them. Laughter for Richie comes as natural as breathing for most people. So much so that it’s wormed its way into his speech, his mannerisms. Mike finds himself wondering if Richie punctuates his tears with laughter. “But seriously, it’s been what? Two decades since we’ve talked?”

“We’ve been talking since you got back to Derry.”

“Ok, you fucking pedant. Sure, we’ve talked. In that time our conversations have been about,” He holds his left index finger and taps it with his right, counting along the fingers of his hand “Clown shit. Impending Death. Failed Rituals and the unfortunate win loss record of the New York Knicks. Three of those things are irrelevant since we bullied the God Clown to death and if I think about the other for too long, I get the overwhelming urge to crush my body between two very heavy stones.”

“You have never lived in New York.”

“You learn that from stalking my every move since I left Derry?” Richie says this in good humor. This doesn’t stop the pang of guilt that digs into Mike’s chest.

“I learned that from the interview you did on Seth Meyers in which you said and I quote,” He affects a voice, it sounds like Richie in cadence but not in pitch or tone “ _Yeah, no, I’ve never lived in New York before._ ”

“Aw, you watched my interviews, Mikey?” Richie coos, as if he’s talking to a baby or a small to medium sized dog.

“Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels and it came on. Most of the things I’ve learned about you since you’ve left have been by accident.” 

Mike wishes he could lie sometimes. It’s not that he’s unable to, God no, he’s become very good at lying. It’s that he just doesn’t, unless he feels like he has to. He doesn’t know when this particular personality trait popped up for him, perhaps he was always like this. He lives with the idea that if he establishes some form of moral code he could still pretend he was a good person instead of whatever he is right now. So he tells the truth. Unless he needs to lie. Which is often, now that he thinks of it.

Richie doesn’t seem bothered by this.

“Are you one of those people who still had cable,” he asks incredulously.

“It’s Derry. Everyone has cable.”

“God, what a fucking hellhole,” Richie says. He folds his body at the waist, pulling his legs up and placing his feet on the dash.

Mike risks a glance at his feet “That doesn’t seem safe.”

“Probably not.”

“If we crash you’ll fly through the windshield feet first. You’ll probably break your legs.”

“Hm. You have any plans on crashing this thing?”

“I might if we start talking about the Knicks again.”

Richie snickers, “That’s fair,” He shifts. “So you never kept tabs on us?”

Mike, unfortunately did. It wasn’t as intensive as the others assumed, the idea of having constant reminders of the fact he could never reach out to the only people that had ever understood him made his skin crawl. He’s reminded not of the day where he saw Richie’s interview on Seth Meyers but of the morning after, where his breakfast tasted of sand and the way his stomach clenched every time he heard Richie’s laugh played in his head.

“Enough to find you when It came back,” Mike says, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“Too busy doing, uh, whatever it is you did in Derry,” Richie trails off, an opener.

“I worked.”

“Worked.”

“Yes? Did you assume that the exchanging of money for goods and services just didn’t exist in Derry? I worked. I paid rent. I bought groceries. I lived a life.”

“Yeowch, ok,” Richie pauses for a brief moment, letting the silence get awkward before asking “So you just worked, really?”

“40 hours a week and sometimes weekends, yeah.”

“Ok, but what about the bits in between,” Richie’s voice is easy, almost languid, oozing a casualness that Mike never became accustomed to. “Come on, Mikey, bond with meeeee”

Mike racked his brain for the bits in between. He imagines counting the actions that took up his spare time in the same way Richie counted on his fingers. There was his research, and the way he spent hours upon hours reading history and folklore. That would require him talking about the clown, however, and at this point Mike would rather give himself a root canal than to mention It. There was the volunteering, a feeble attempt at fostering some kind of goodwill between himself and the more conservative denizens of Derry. Yet, that would require context. An understanding of the way certain members of the community would level their charged gazes at the back of his head after calling him things like _articulate_ to his face. There was the sex. Mike absolutely could not mention the sex.

“Music,” Mike says. 

“Like? Listening to it? I hate to break it to you, Mikey, but everyone listens to music. That’s like saying your hobby is breathing.”

“Playing music. Like, instruments.”

“No shit,” Richie says, there’s a hint of awe in his voice. “Like what?”

“It’s not as interesting as you think it is. Learned piano at church. Got into guitar a few years back. Nothing special.”

“I can’t play guitar.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“Maybe so,” Richie laughs. “You sing?”

“Sometimes. When I’m alone.”

“Me too. You any good?”

“Not really.”

“That’s sad. I’m pretty fucking good.”

“I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

“You might! Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“It’ll be you regardless.”

Another aspect of this slightly stunted coming of age trip that Mike didn’t consider was the silence. The way that he and Richie would lapse in between moments of _conversation_ and _abstaining from it._ This is very different from the absence of talking, something that Mike knew intimately as a side effect of his unintentional turned self-imposed reclusiveness. People really didn’t talk to him. There is a logical part within him that asks _Do you know how fucking sad that is?_ To which the feeling part of him responds _No, because I don’t know anything else._ He finds it interesting, the way he’s broken himself down into pieces. He saw it as being separate parts communicating with one another, instead of the way that others would see themselves as a single composite being.

“So, where are we headed?” Richie says, shifting them into a _conversation_ moment.

“As of now? The nearest gas station. After that, who the fuck knows.”

“You really don’t have a plan, do you?”

“No. Not really.”

In some ways it’s liberating. Mike had spent the better part of two decades planning for It’s return. He thinks of the cork board decorated with tacked string. He watched it grow as the years passed, starting from a simple newspaper clipping with the headline _Bodies of Missing Children Found at Sewer Entrance_ that had grown into a tesseracted tangle of history, folklore and conspiracies. Occasionally he would dream of It, a Pennywise with spider-like legs climbing about the web of red string. 20 years of work now sits left behind on the back wall of his apartment. Somebody else’s problem. He didn’t have the heart to take it down himself. 

It would be a lie if Mike said he left that aspect of himself truly behind, for the fear of having a moment unplanned had seeped into his day to day life. Mike thinks of the lined notepad that served as his daily to-do list sitting neglected in his glove box. Notes like _Buy Salad Mix_ and _Order More Pens_ have lost their relevance. 

He can’t tell if he’s homesick or just really craving a salad. Either way, it’s a feeling Mike didn’t expect to deal with.

“Well,” Richie says, shifting again, trying to find the ideal way to settle himself into Mike’s passenger seat. “the good ol’ U S of A is pretty big.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.”

“You know they say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Michael.”

“Hm. Bet they’d change their tune if they ever meet you.”

“Hey, I never said I was witty,” Richie concedes, letting the car go silent again. 

They reach the gas station in companionable silence. The place is anachronistic, the store itself being an old building named _Big John's Pit Stop_ , yet the gas pumps in front of it are shiny, new and owned by Chevron.

Richie undoes his seatbelt as Mike parks "So, if you want to get the snacks I can," he pauses and Mike can feel the weight of the oncoming comedic bit sit between them " _gee pump."_ He says this in a deep, guttural accent. Mike thinks it's Scottish but he wouldn't bet money on it if asked.

The silence as Mike stares trying to figure out a proper way to respond must eat at Richie the way moths eat at fabric. He quickly follows up with "You know, the gas. I can pump the gas."

Mike can feel the subconscious pull of his right eyebrow crawling up to his hairline. His face says more than any words could.

Richie doesn't agree, continuing on "You see it's a double entendre. Kind of. Pump is a slang word for sex. In Scotland. Probably in other places too, now that I think about it."

So it was Scottish. An errant spark of joy bubbles in Mike's chest at the thought of being right. It's the little things.

"Was that insensitive? I thought the accent was pretty good? It probably needs work, but like fuck am I seeing a dialogue coach again anytime soon. Did you know I had to do that for a role-"

Mike wonders how long he could keep Richie here. How long would he squirm under the weight of Mike's gaze? The silence. Richie speaks as if his words are a shield resting on his forearm, pushing back on any external force with ease. He could deflect praise and defend himself from scorn. He had nothing for the silence. He can't fight nothing.

Mike puts him out of his misery "You're saying you want to get the gas?"

"Yes," Richie says, sounding more like a hiss of steam than an actual word. "I want to get the gas."

"Ok," Mike shuffles, lifting his hips so he can pull his wallet out of his back pocket.

Richie quickly waves a hand "Oh no, we're not doing that."

"Doing what?"

"The thing where you're paying for the gas."

"It's my car? Why wouldn't I pay for the gas?"

"Because I'm paying for it, obviously."

"Ok, you can get it this time. I'll get it the next."

Richie shakes his head "Oh, no, that's already too many rules. I'll just get next time too, and the time after that."

"Is this a bit?"

"My whole life's a bit. However, I'm not joking about paying for the gas."

"You don't have to do that."

The problem of not planning is that Mike, inevitably, would find himself in a situation he is undoubtedly unprepared for. It's not like he didn't think about money when he left. He had a pretty sizable savings after everything, a side effect of low rent and the habit of never letting himself want something more than the prospect of living to the next day.

"I didn't have to defeat the amalgamation of my childhood trauma with faith, trust and a little bit of pixie dust either but I did so, go fuck yourself," Richie says.

Mike's face goes flat, unyielding "You absolutely had to do that."

"So you're saying the pixie dust was necessary?"

"I'm saying you don't have to pay for the gas."

"Ok, so, full transparency, in the years we were apart I developed a fetish for providing fiscal support to people that are taller than me. It's something that I've been dealing with as a repressed adult for the better part of ten years. You denying me this is kink shaming, are you sure you want that on your conscience?"

"I didn't before, but now I hope you ejaculate dust for the rest of your life."

Richie laughs, the gravity of it pulling his chin to his chest. It's one of his quieter laughs, as if each beat was a secret just for the two them. It's at this moment Mike realizes that despite being forty years old and someone Mike would consider having a personality that was distilled water to Mike’s castor oil, Richie is extremely cute. He finds this obscene and promises himself to never say it out loud.

"And here I thought I was the only axe murderer in the group," Richie looks up, making a show of wiping a single tear from his eye "You're a stone cold killer, Mikey."

It's a joke. Most things about Mike were in some way. Tragedy plus time, wasn't it? Mike had both in droves. Yet, he wonders if he's imagining a hint of truth in Richie's voice. He tries not to take it personally. He tries not to take anything personally.

"I guess I'm going to go get the snacks," Mike says, knowing that he was beat.

"Oh wow, I didn't expect it to be that easy."

"This is easy to you?"

Richie shrugs, pulling his wallet out of his pocket "No, not really." He opens the main pouch, thumbing through more cash than Mike thinks he's ever seen in one place. Richie pulls out two twenty dollar bills and casually holds them out "Get me a pack of Turkish Royals, would ya? Also a Nerds Rope and the biggest Red Bull they're legally allowed to give you. If they don't have the Nerds Rope, Sour Patch kids are fine but if they don't have the Red Bull you're just going to have to shoot me in the head."

Mike blinks, then looks down at the cash "I don't think I'll need that much to get those things."

"Just use the rest to get whatever you want, like a cliff bar or a muscle milk or whatever it is you get at places like this."

"You're just going to be like this the entire time, aren't you?"

"I think we both know the answer to that."

If there was a way to grab something sarcastically, Mike thinks the way he takes the money out of Richie's is pretty close if not spot on to what that would look like. "I'm getting SnoBalls"

"Like, willingly?"

Mike ignores him "Are you going to meet me inside when you're done with the gas?"

Richie scrunches his nose “Pass.”

“Pass?”

“Not trying to get recognized, you get it yeah?”

It wasn’t like Mike wasn’t aware of the fact that Richie was the eye of a swirling media storm. Richie wasn’t the first celebrity to have what could be considered to be a public celebrity breakdown, and if the magazines Mike would read as he waited in line to check out at the grocery store had anything to say about it, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Yet, there’s a twist under Mike’s skin, a hook just under his rib that serves a reminder that Richie never had a choice. That the one iota of consistency that Richie had in his life was taken by Mike, a sacrifice for some greater good.

“Speaking of, you got anything I can hide this ugly mug with?” Richie gestures at his face. “Like a hat or something?”

Mike doesn’t push it. He knows when to not ask questions.

“Uh, yeah,” He reaches back, his hand moving across the floor of his back seat. He feels the cold aluminum of an empty beer can and the crunch of used napkins and receipts. His fingers brush against gently worn fabric. “Oh, here.”

Mike holds the brim of the cap in one hand and then smacks it with the palm of his other, knocking off the dust and debris. The hat is well loved, if one could consider being used often as a function of love. Mike loves the hat in a way he supposed people would love him. How they have loved him.

Richie takes the hat from Mike’s outstretched hand and takes a long look at it “Didn’t think you were a guy who fished.”

The cap is made of green fabric that had been bleached and lightened due to years of prolonged exposure to the sun. On the front it had an embroidered patch of what Mike thought was a bass on a hook but he couldn’t be too sure with the words _the Struggle is Reel_ next to it.

Mike is ambivalent to fishing. “It was my uncle’s.”

Richie puts the hat on, it fits perfectly “Your uncle had a big ass head. You wear this thing a lot?”

“Only when I’m out in the sun. Melanoma is very serious, proper UVA and UVB protection is important.”

“Hat with fishing puns, vocal concerns about melanoma, you must’ve been a killer with the ladies back in Derry. Absolutely neck deep in pussy.”

Mike wouldn’t say that his life flashed before his eyes often. At this point it has only happened twice, both instances were related to the demon clown and Its various claw-like appendages flying towards him at less than safe speeds. So, it happening here really took Mike for a fucking loop.

If he were being fair, which in all honesty the events in which Mike was fair to himself were few and far between, it was only one moment. One where his back arched under the touch of a calloused hand on his chest. Where he laid bare, exposed as he was pushed into. Where Mike’s own hands reached out to the man above him, wondering if he pulled hard enough that maybe he could pull the other man in further to the point where they were completely fused. Mike has enough of these moments where the hands that touch him change size and shape seamlessly. The same whisper of _Promise you won’t mention this?_ said with different voices. Neck deep in something, Richie wasn’t wrong about that. Is it trouble or longing? All the same for Mike, if he thinks about it.

He doesn’t. Instead he says “You said you wanted Turkish Royals?”

Perhaps Mike’s eyes darkened, or his posture changed, either way something causes Richie’s face to shift. They both know Richie said the wrong thing.

“Uh, yeah. Just the one pack, if you can.”

The moment Mike steps out of the car he wonders if he’s too old for this. The way his knees and shoulders crack tell him the answer is _Probably yes, but your body got old before you did._ It's another conversation with himself that leads to more questions than answers. It's frustrating, Mike thought he was done with questions. Yet, even now, his flesh is new soil covering wretched pieces of himself that he has yet to dig up.

"Wait, I gotta send a text!"

Mike turns, wondering what this has to do with him. Richie leans against the trunk of the car, his right hand holding his cellphone, his left beckoning Mike over.

He looks up, as if he could feel the question in Mike's gaze. "For the group chat, idiot. Should probably let them know we're alive."

Mike pauses, the lie of _Oh, I don't really think they're checking for us._ dies on his lips. At the insistence of Bill, their leader --or as Mike had come to realize, the only one of them stupid and brash enough fully commit to decisions without really thinking them through, they had made a group chat with the intent of being able to see if leaving Derry would cause them to forget again. When Bill first left, he would rather adorably flood the chat with nervous updates that read _Made it to the terminal!!_ and _Just saw someone pick up, read the back of and instantly put down one of my books at the airport bookstore. Should I be having a crisis about this?_ To which Mike remembers Stan replying _Never go on the internet. I don't think your emotional state can handle it._ Mike knows he laughed when he saw that. Stan's a funny guy when he wants to be. Then Bill's plane took off, and it wasn't funny anymore.

They tried to keep morale up in the meantime. Stan talked about his wife. Bev had taken to sending photos of dogs in socks with the words _Bottom Text_ on them. Ben showed them his 25 house plants, each of them with different names and fun facts about them. Richie didn't say much of anything at all, spending most if not all of his waking moments staring at the contours of Eddie's face, lax under the pull of unconsciousness. Yet, it was impossible to hide the undercurrent of fear that each of them had of receiving a text that simply read _Wait, who are you?_

Mike remembers the way his stomach plummeted to his feet when Bill's first text to them upon landing was _What the fuck?_ After everything he--they had done, it didn't matter, at least not in any important way. The way that ends with them together.

So if Mike let out a choked, exasperated scream when Bill's next text of _They lost my fucking luggage_ came in, that was between him and whatever God that hadn't killed. Mike cared about very little, after that. Bill remembered. He remembered them. Which means he remembered Mike, and the things they did. Mike never decided whether or not that was a good thing.

"Come here," Richie waves again. His arm that is closest to Mike is held out at a perpendicular angle from his shoulder, as if he was trying to show Mike the nifty new pit stain he got.

Mike walks closer, not expecting for Richie's extended arm to envelop him in an embrace. It's innocuous. The two of them are standing side by side, Richie's arm is wrapped around Mike in a way that lets him grab Mike's shoulder. Mike attempts to have a regular reaction to this, it's barely a hug, let alone anything someone well adjusted would call a tender embrace.

Mike refuses to think about how he can't remember being touched in this way. That's too pathetic, even for him.

"I'd chop off both of our index fingers and mail them to Bev as proof of life, but I don't have anything to send them in. So a picture will just have to do, yeah?" Richie laughs, lifting up his phone to take a selfie.

A picture, Mike could do a picture. Stand still, smile big, he's good at that. It's the weight of the picture that gets to him. People would theoretically see this image. They would see his face. It's not like he thought his face was particularly obscene. It wasn't beautiful, or likely to be the subject of paintings, but it wasn't something someone would regret looking at? Was it? There's a chance it might be, people would have a permanent reminder of the foul creature that was his visage. Not just any people, but his friends. Like Bill, Bill's his friend. A very good friend. Theoretically his very good friend Bill would see this picture of his face and think something about it. Did Mike like being thought about? Did Mike like being thought about by people, but especially his friend Bill? The fact is, he did like it. He would go so far as to say, he liked it a lot. Which makes it worse, obviously. Mike learned that early on in his adolescence, it's worse if you like it. Liking it means you have something to lose. Beyond that, what does he even do? Perhaps smiling would be too much, this is supposed to be a casual photo. One that says _Look at us cool people, traveling America. We're not fucked up at all._ Mike thinks it's possible that he can coach his face into a neutral expression, but then he remembers the time his piano teacher, Mrs. Jones, said _You have a mean look about you, Michael_ after she saw him zoning out in the middle of church. So he should smile, but what about the rest of him? Should he just stand there, that would be too stiff wouldn't it? Like he's a doll with one of those strings you pull, but instead of saying cute phrases he does vague humanlike movements uncanny enough to unsettle those around him. Surely he isn't supposed to throw up a peace sign for this, is he?

As Richie takes the picture, Mike puts his hand up, hiding his face.

Richie throws his head back and laughs "Oh, come on, man! It can't be just me. I'll break my camera that way."

Mike holds back a scoff, like everyone has a jawline that can cut through diamond, or eyes like shimmering pools of spring water.

"Fine," Mike huffs. "I'll be good."

Richie turns to him and winks, before lifting the phone to take another picture.

Mike squares his shoulders, smiles and throws up a peace sign.

Richie puts the phone in his front pocket, "Cool, I'll send it in a second."

"You aren't going to look at it?"

"I'm sure it's fine, dude."

Mike feels like jumping out of his skin. Richie is one of the least sure people Mike knows.

What does that make him, then?

"Ok," Mike shrugs, escaping to the refuge that was _Big John's Pit Stop._

This is the first place Mike has stepped in outside of Derry. The thought of it makes him shiver, as if someone poured ice water down his back. He pauses for a moment, standing outside of the door. It's a typical convenience store entrance, as far as he knows, with a metal frame and glass body. It's a carbon copy of the door of _Jim's Convenience_ in Derry, down to the paper signs taped to it that read _STORE IS MONITORED BY CLOSED CIRCUIT CAMERA SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED_ and _WE DON'T BREAK BILLS OVER 50_. Mike finds it funny that the door to the beginning of his new life leads to one of those rotating hot dog things and maybe a machine that dispenses a vanilla cappuccino that comes out of a bag if he's lucky. He grips the door handle with a sweaty palm, opens the door and steps inside.

It all gets pretty underwhelming after that.

It wasn't just the door of _Big John's_ that's identical to _Jim's Convenience._ The inside too, is unremarkably similar. The shelf placement is slightly different, the rotating hot dog thing is in the middle of _Big John's_ as opposed to being on the outside edge like it is at _Jim's Convenience._ The white tile, fluorescent light and inattentive teen employee manning the cash register, however, are the same.

He beelines to the coffee machine. He thinks back to a week ago, sitting in the hospital waiting room with others and eating a fast food breakfast. Ben had said to him _Don't get stuck here again, Mikey. Go out. See the beauty the world has to offer you._ before stuffing an entire hash brown into his mouth. He remembers how quickly the others agreed, especially Bill. Bill agreed with an intensity that makes Mike think Bill wished he was the one who suggested it.

How disappointed would they be if they learned Mike thought he's running to more of the same. Maybe he just needed to get out of Maine. It's entirely possible that Derry wasn't an outlier, and it was the entire state that had a thin veil of dread sitting on top of Northeastern monotony.

Mike grabs a large, maybe 32 ounce, to-go cup from the side of the coffee machine. It's then Mike realizes this particular model of coffee machine doesn't even have a vanilla cappuccino option, making this place objectively worse than Derry. Mike wants to cry.

His phone buzzes in the front pocket of his jeans. He pulls it out, a single notification alerting him that someone had posted a message in the Losers Club group chat.

Losers Club  
  
Richie  
**Richie:** got busted for credit card fraud so now we're on the lam  
  


The picture could've been worse, Mike thinks. Richie looks fine, if you can ignore the fact that he desperately needs a shower. His smile is big to where it reaches his eyes, even if the bags under them showcase a not so hidden exhaustion that had been lingering for weeks. Mike can tell he's used to being on camera, even in an informal context.

Mike, on the other hand, looks like a store mannequin. That's really the only way he can describe it.

In contrast to the way Richie's smile reaches his eyes, Mike's barely makes it to the outside of his cheeks. If it weren't for his visible dimples, one probably wouldn't be able to tell he was smiling at all. He showed no teeth, his hastily thrown up peace sign covering the left corner of his mouth. The pose made him look 13 and 60 all at once.

Losers Club  
  
Stan  
**Stan:** Mike, blink twice if you're being held against your will.  
  
Bev  
**Bev:** richie you look like you smell like fritos  
  
**Mike:** he does.  
  
**Mike:** however, i'm here willingly  
  
Richie  
**Richie:** literally what the fuck mike  
  
Ben  
**Ben:** Are you two going somewhere? Good to see Mike's taking my advice!  
  
Richie  
**Richie:** ye dude call us the backyardigans because we're taking the road less traveled  
  


It startles a laugh out of Mike, the way it feels like nothing really changed in the past 27 years. He supposes they haven't, Derry's curse freezing their spirits in time as their bodies decay and age.

Bill  
**Bill:** You two look good. Glad you're out in the sun, Mikey.  
  


Is he, now? The message seems taunting coming from Bill. _Out in the sun._ What does that mean? Out in the open, perhaps? That's what this feels like. Like he's exposed, everyone sees him.

No, he's not going to think about the part where Bill said he looked good. He doesn't respond, placing his phone in his pocket and pressing the _Hot Chocolate_ button on the machine. It doesn't look bad, but it's not what he wanted.

The snack selection isn't anything special, the usual convenience store fare. Mike isn't above taking two hot dogs from the rotating machine. It's weird how they can look like plastic and still smell like meat. It doesn't bother him that much, he's put worse things in his body. He finds Richie's requested items with ease and grabs a pack of SnoBalls as a treat for later. He will concede to the fact that it's easier to do things here, as opposed to when he did them in Derry. Less than a month ago he couldn't go to the grocery store without feeling haunted. Now he just feels bored.

"Can I get a pack of Turkish Royals?" Mike asks the cashier as he places his items on the counter.

The cashier looks like they could be anywhere between 17 and 27. Well, maybe 18 and 27 as they had a very tacky tattoo of a circus clown holding a katana on their right forearm. Mike thinks he's trapped in some kind of cosmic joke.

The cashier-- _Mars_ , according to their name tag, looks up at him. "Ok," they say, turning to grab a pack from the wall of cigarettes behind them. Mike didn't think he looked that old, but apparently he looked to be an age where gas station cashiers felt it safe to hand him cigarettes without checking his ID.

It's a quiet minute as Mars scans the items, unfazed by his selections. It all feels alarmingly normal.

"Anything good to do around here?" Mike asks as he hands them the cash that Richie gave him. He was right, it was too much for what he was sent for.

"You new to Maine?"

"No, I lived here my whole life, actually."

Mars hands him his change, ignoring the weirdness of his statement "Well, best sight around here is probably the _Now Leaving Bangor_ sign. But that's just personal preference."

Mike doesn't know what to say to that. He needs to get out of here.Out of this county. Out of his skin.

"Have a nice day," Mars smiles, handing him his Hot Chocolate and the other items in a plastic bag. The smile is tight, fabricated.

"Uh yeah," Mike says, quickly snatching the items and making his exit.

He comes out to Richie sitting on the trunk of his car, frowning at his phone.

Mike places the plastic bag next to him, "Your requisition."

Richie turns, immediately rifling through the bag and pulling out the pack of Turkish Royals "Oh, fuck yes."

Mike holds out a few bills "Your change."

Richie takes it without fuss, a small mercy. He folds the cash into thirds and puts it into his front pocket. In exchange he pulls out a zippo lighter with a rose on it. Richie planned on smoking. So Mike, with time to kill, pulls out one of the hot dogs and unwraps its foil casing.

"And I thought I had bad habits," Richie places a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.

Mike takes a bite of his hot dog in retaliation. He eats it plain. The bun is stale and the hot dog itself is somehow both dry and greasy. It's divine.

Richie takes a drag and exhales "Can I ask you a question?"

"It'll be a pretty awkward trip, if you couldn't."

Richie laughs, "What do you think it means when someone responds to your message in a group chat through a direct text?"

"You're asking me?"

"Yeah, you seem to be a sensible guy"

An image flashes in Mike's vision. Hands caressed his cheeks and pulled him in, pressing his forehead against another. Sensible? Mike was anything but.

Richie shows him his phone screen. Mike takes another bite of his hot dog and reads. When he sees the contact name _Eds_ things start to click pretty quick.

Mike's eyes glaze over most of the conversation. Things that were either not his business or too boring to care about. He sees messages like _I'll text you when we hit our layover_ and _This medication turns my urinary tract into a god damned slip n slide. I'm pissing like every 20 minutes._

He lands on the exchange Richie's referring to.

Eds  
  
**Eds:** You and Mike are going somewhere?  
  
**Richie:** we will be probably going to a lot of somewheres  
  
**Eds:** So, what? Like a road trip?  
  
**Richie:** yeah lol   
  
**Eds:** Oh. I didn't know that was something you wanted to do.  
  
**Richie:** kind of a last minute thing   
  


"Jealousy," Mike says, his mouth full of hot dog.

"What?"

He swallows "Yup."

"That doesn't make any sense, dude," Richie shakes his head. "Eddie's recovering from clown impalement, no fucking way he wants to be trapped in some car with us bozos."

Mike blinks, weighing the ways this conversation could go. He hates all possible outcomes.

"I'm not holding your hand through this." He stuffs the last of his hot dog in his mouth and crumbles the foil into a ball. He throws the ball into one of the trash cans next to the gas pump. It lands perfectly. He picks up his hot chocolate and walks to the driver side door.

Richie throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out. He picks up the plastic bag full of snacks and follows, walking parallel to Mike on the passenger side "Hold my hand through _what?"_

It's not that Mike doesn't want to be supportive. He just remembers how Richie and Eddie were. The private smiles shared as teens. The show boating and vying for the other's attention. It wasn't like he was completely stupid. He could see what was happening, their frozen spirits were beginning to thaw. Mike couldn't deal with childhood, at least not this week.

"Nope," Mike says, opening the car door and slipping inside.

Richie huffs, doing the same. He puts the bag of snacks on the floor and crosses his arms.

"You really think he's jealous," He asks, voice hopeful.

"Well, we're hanging out without him, Eddie never really liked that."

It's not a lie, not exactly. Eddie hated being left out. He hated being left behind by Richie more though.

Richie's shoulders dip slightly "I guess you're right."

It's quiet in the car. This time the lapse doesn't feel natural. Richie taps a finger against his bicep. Mike wants to turn the car on and drive it off a bridge.

"So, uh," Richie breaks the silence. "What's going to be the music situation, here? I don't see a place to plug in an AUX cord. Does this thing have bluetooth?"

"It's a 2005 Honda Civic."

"Is that a no?"

"What do you think?"

Richie exhales, making a _pbbbbt_ sound with his lips as he buckles his seatbelt "I guess I can go back to my roots as a humble servant to the fickle mistress that is public radio."

"Our circumstances aren't that dire."

Mike opens up the compartment that's between the both of them and pulls out two items.

Richie's brow furrows "Is this a bit?"

"This is an iPod Nano," Mike says in a way that's akin to a Kindergarten teacher dealing with an unruly student. He holds up a cassette adapter, the other item he pulled out from the compartment. "See you plug this chord into it and you put the cassette into the tape player, then you can play any song you want!"

Richie takes the iPod and the adapter out of Mike's hands "Ok, so we don't need to get snippy."

Mike pulls a face that says _Actually, we really do_ and turns on the car.

"We still never really figured out the whole destination thing," Richie says.

"Thought the journey was the important part?"

"My therapist says I'm a very goal oriented person."

"You don't have a therapist."

"My point still stands."

Mike tries to rack his brain for a satisfying answer. There's an itch under his skin, similar to the one he would feel as he sat and waited for Its return. Was there ever a time where he was truly prepared? He has luck to thank for his life. He wishes he could pull from his head a random destination, but the only thing he thinks is _Home, I want to go home._

"What about Florida?" Richie asks.

"Florida."

"Yeah man, didn't you say some shit about wanting to go there a while back?"

He did. He remembers bringing a travel book that he checked out from the library to the clubhouse _Food, Sights and Sun: 101 Things to Do In Florida Before You Die._ Quite morbid, considering the circumstances. Didn't change the fact that he dreamed of the white sands of Pensacola for weeks.

"I was 15, Richie."

"You think Florida just stopped existing in the past two decades? It's still there, dude."

"I know."

"So let's go! We can take I-95 straight down to Miami, stop at all the touristy shit along the way."

"You've thought about this."

"Well, you were taking a really long time inside, thought I'd do a little bit of googling."

Mike hums, nodding. It's a poor attempt of looking like a person who's used to people giving a shit about him.

"We don't have to go now," Richie shrugs, looking down "We could fuck around a bit up here before we go."

"And do what?"

"Have you ever been to Acadia National Park?"

"You really have to get better at asking me questions," Mike says, smiling softly. "Have you ever been?"

"I used to go with my family. It was a long time ago, though. Haven't been since I was a kid."

Richie's voice is wistful when he says it. It's a feeling Mike understands pretty well, longing for a comfort you used to know.

"Seems like a good starting point as any," Mike says. "We could camp out a few days, then head down to Miami."

Richie smiles "So you're sold on Florida?"

"It's a place I know, I guess."

Mike didn't expect much when it was all said and done. Maybe that's why he didn't think much of the after. It would die and take Mike with It. Mike didn't want to die, not exactly. He just couldn't picture what his life would like once the evil was defeated. Another unknown, another thing he didn't understand. At least Florida is how the books say it would be. His life past this point was a beast, laying at the bottom of an abyss and waiting to swallow him whole.

Mike was tired of beasts. So, for now, he would go to Florida.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special Thanks to Lynne (beverlymarshian) for betaing this chapter and Rants (saintsrow2) for general cheerleading!!!
> 
> Come hang out with me on twitter: @chernobrough


	3. Interlude: Mike's Phone, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mike Hanlon texts some of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is once again recommended that you have creator skin's on for full effect. However, this is coded in such a way that if you download/read with creator skins off, it will still be readable.

Richie  
  
**September 16,** 11:05 PM  
**Richie:** im getting us a room with two double beds  
  
**Richie:** that cool?   
  
**Mike:** is there a reason why it wouldn’t be?   
  
**Mike:** a bed is a bed is a bed.  
  
**Richie:** i could get u ur own room   
  
**Mike:** that seems excessive.  
  
**Mike:** and by seems i mean that’s excessive. we’re only staying for a night.   
  
**Richie:** lol ok  
  
**Richie:** if ur sure  
  
**Mike:** i’m sure.  
  
**Richie:** like ur sure ur sure  
  
**Mike:** does the phrase “im sure.” mean something different to you when i say it?   
  
**Richie:** but like r u surrrreeee  
  
**Mike:** is there something wrong with me?   
  
**Richie:** why would u say that  
  
**Richie:** literally nothing is wrong with u  
  
**Mike:** then   
  
**Mike:** nevermind. one room is fine. i’m sure.   
  
**Richie:** ok  
  


Bev  
  
**September 16,** 10:45 PM  
**Bev:** check this out!  
  
**Bev:** img_3145.jpg   
  
**Mike:** neat! :D  
  
**Bev:** fuck i did it wrong  
  
**Bev:** whatever just imagine a greyhound in a red knit sweater   
  
**Mike:** let me amend my statement  
  
**Mike:** adorable! :D  
  
**Bev:** lol  
  
**Bev:** forgot how stupid you were   
  
**Bev:** i mean this in an endearing way  
  
**Bev:** like in the same way kittens are stupid  
  
**Bev:** the way that makes you want 8 of them   
  
**Mike:** one of me is enough!  
  
**Bev:** incorrect if i had at least two mikes i would have two people that could help me move a couch   
  
**Mike:** you have a ben.  
  
**Bev:** ben has a job and i have a job and also a divorce  
  
**Bev:** life and shit   
  
**Mike:** i wouldn’t know what that’s like. :/  
  
**Bev:** sure you do   
  
**Bev:** not like you sat around waiting for us all that time   
  
**Bev:** you’re not that kind of stupid   
  
**Mike:** could be.  
  
**Bev:** anyone could be anything   
  
**Mike:** i won’t say i didn’t leave anything behind in derry. stuff i wanted.   
  
**Bev:** but didn’t matter   
  
**Mike:** no. it was stuff i chose not to keep   
  


Losers Club  
  
**September 16,** 11:45 PM  
Richie  
**Richie:** mike just laid down in the motel bed and all of his joints popped should i call 911   
  
**Mike:** i am forty god damned years old. o(>< )o   
  
Richie  
**Richie:** the emoticons tell a different story   
  
**Mike:** let me take solace in life’s simple pleasures. i’m old :(   
  
Eddie  
**Eddie:** Yeah, which means you’re prone to muscle stiffness! Give me your email. I can send you some exercises.  
  
Richie  
**Richie:** idk if u’ve seen him eds but mike absolutely does not need the exercise   
  
Eddie  
**Eddie:** Everyone needs exercise, jackass. Motion is fucking lotion, bro.   
  
Stan  
**Stan:** I could’ve sworn the phrase was “it’s about the motion of the ocean”   
  
Bev  
**Bev:** yeah i think that’s a sex thing   
  
Ben  
**Ben:** Can confirm! Definitely a sex thing.   
  
Eddie  
**Eddie:** I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT SEX I’M TALKING ABOUT MUSCLE LUBRICATION   
  
Richie  
**Richie:** sorry   
  
Richie  
**Richie:** u weren’t talking about sex?   
  
Eddie  
**Eddie:** I just said that.   
  
Bill  
**Bill:** He’s talking about muscle lubrication. Which is a totally different thing, apparently.   
  
Eddie  
**Eddie:** You write BOOKS. You should know THEY ARE ABSOLUTELY DIFFERENT THINGS.   
  
Stan  
**Stan:** Documented proof that Eddie never read Bill’s books.   
  
Bev  
**Bev:** does anyone under the age of 60 read them  
  
Stan  
**Stan:** My wife.   
  
Bill  
**Bill:** If the only other thing they sell at the airport bookstore is James Patterson.   
  
Bill  
**Bill:** Wait, your wife?   
  
Stan  
**Stan:** Everyone knows I have a wife, Bill.   
  
Richie  
**Richie:** didn’t know she had shit taste though   
  
Bev  
**Bev:** she married stan  
  
Stan  
**Stan:** I am going to hunt each of you for sport.   
  
**Mike:** i read bill’s books.   
  
Stan  
**Stan:** SEE?? MIKE READ THEM TOO!   
  
**Mike:** i didn’t say it wasn’t a character flaw.   
  
Bill  
**Bill:** You really read them?   
  
**Mike:** in the same way i watched one of richie’s stand up specials.   
  
**Mike:** high and through gritted teeth.   
  


Eddie  
  
**September 16,** 11:50 PM  
**Eddie:** So, how is he?   
  
**Mike:** hey mike! How are you? i’m doing ok, eddie! thanks for asking!   
  
**Eddie:** Sorry.   
  
**Eddie:** Hi Mike.   
  
**Mike:** hello!   
  
**Mike:** he’s as fine as he can be, considering. :/   
  
**Eddie:** Considering what? He’s on vacation.   
  
**Mike:** is that what he told you?   
  
**Eddie:** Well, what else would it be?   
  
**Mike:** you’d have to ask him.   
  
**Mike:** how’s your hole?   
  
**Eddie:** Don’t call it a hole.   
  
**Mike:** i wasn’t talking about the stab wound. :p   
  
**Eddie:** You   
  
**Eddie:** The next time I see you, it’s going to be in a fucking morgue.   
  
**Mike:** who’s on the slab? you or me? :)   
  
**Eddie:** Is that a threat?   
  
**Mike:** i’m not in the business of threats!   
  
**Mike:** seriously.   
  
**Eddie:** It’s whatever, I guess. I’ve spent most of the past few days doped up on oxycontin and dramamine. So far the closest things to feelings I’ve had about it are the equivalent to a dull humming noise.   
  
**Mike:** is that what you want?   
  
**Eddie:** Absolutely not. I want to be fucking pissed. I am pissed. I think. If I could think I think I’d be fucking pissed.   
  
**Mike:** sorry :/   
  
**Eddie:** Yeah, well. Go fuck yourself. I’d be worse off without it, I think.   
  
**Mike:** i mean, you could’ve been dead with it.   
  
**Eddie:** Yeah, no shit. I’m not talking about things in the literal fucking sense. It’s the other shit. I got a missing piece of me back. The part of me that’s any good, that shit I don’t regret.   
  
**Mike:** in exchange for a literal piece of yourself.   
  
**Eddie:** Well, guess the figurative won out. That thing could’ve taken my bones for all I fucking care. I got to keep the important shit. The heart, I guess.   
  
**Mike:** i think the pills turned you into a dumbass.   
  
**Eddie:** I think my rage is going to turn into a boot up your ass.   
  


Ben  
  
**September 17,** 12:01 AM  
**Ben:** You two settling in ok?   
  
**Mike:** it’s a motel called “the road shack”.   
  
**Ben:** That’s...a...no?   
  
**Mike:** it’s fine. we’re only here one night. no need for settling.   
  
**Ben:** Still doesn’t hurt to sleep somewhere comfy!   
  
**Ben:** I have a question!   
  
**Mike:** you want us to stop by and help bev move, don’t you?   
  
**Ben:** Surely I’m not that transparent.   
  
**Mike:** i have some terrible news, are you sitting down?   
  
**Ben:** Richie’s turned you into a nightmare!   
  
**Mike:** i have always been like this :/   
  
**Ben:** I could’ve sworn you were funnier 20 years ago!   
  
**Mike:** ouch. lol!   
  
**Mike:** i don’t know where we’re going after camping, honestly.   
  
**Ben:** You guys don’t have a plan?   
  
**Mike:** i don’t have a plan. richie’s pretending that he isn’t making one.   
  
**Ben:** So what are you doing, if Richie’s the one with the plan?   
  
**Mike:** no clue.   
  


Bill  
  
**September 17,** 12:30 AM  
**Bill:** https://sptfy.com/qkp1   
  
**Bill:** For the drive.   
  
**Mike:** is this a bit?   
  
**Bill:** I don’t know what you’re asking me.   
  
**Mike:** nevermind.   
  
**Mike:** too much time with richie.   
  
**Bill:** Already? You two haven't even left Maine yet, have you?   
  
**Mike:** well, you know richie.   
  
**Bill:** Somewhat. It's been two decades.   
  
**Mike:** you think he's changed that much?   
  
**Bill:** No, not at all.   
  
**Bill:** What about you?   
  
**Mike:** what about me?   
  
**Mike:** how’s audra?   
  
**Bill:** Busy. Cross with me. Those two things are simultaneously related and unrelated.   
  
**Bill:** I can feel you bristle from here, trust this has nothing to do with you.   
  
**Mike:** sure. ok   
  
**Bill:** So, you’ve stopped for today?   
  
**Mike:** yeah. roadside motel. surprisingly nice. thought it'd be a shithole but i'm under the suspicion that richie is apart of some underground network that knows where all the passable motels are.   
  
**Bill:** Well, if his early touring days were anything like mine, he probably has a wealth of temporary lodging experience. Suppose anything is better than Derry, really.   
  
**Mike:** i had a two bedroom apartment in derry. it was right by a boutique cupcakery.   
  
**Bill:** I assure you, there are better ones. Any idea where you're headed?   
  
**Mike:** acadia national park. think we're going to camp for a few days.   
  
**Bill:** What did Richie say to that?   
  
**Mike:** it was his idea?   
  
**Bill:** Oh. Well, I hope the two of you have a good time out there.   
  
**Mike:** me too.   
  
**Bill:** Out in the wilderness. You'll probably be hard to contact, right?   
  
**Mike:** probably.   
  
**Bill:** Try to send some pictures, if you can.   
  
**Mike:** you could probably find ones online better than i could ever take.   
  
**Bill:** Not ones with you in them.   
  


[The Song](https://sptfy.com/qkp1)

Stan  
  
**Stan:** Patty pulled the metal out of my eyebrow with a really strong magnet.   
  
**Mike:** i feel like that’s a doctor task. Like i’m not a medical professional, but i think that should’ve been done by a doctor.   
  
**Stan:** Please, we had super glue and the magnet at home. Why waste the trip?   
  
**Mike:** you live in the suburbs. be regular.   
  
**Stan:** This is regular. You’ll understand when you’re married.   
  
**September 17,** 1:15 AM  
**Stan:** So, you took the trip.   
  
**Mike:** a. i’m taking a trip.   
  
**Stan:** I think stepping out of Derry for the first time deserves a “the”.   
  
**Mike:** so far it hasn’t been too spectacular. derry’s just a town, like any.   
  
**Stan:** I would’ve said that about any place. Being somewhere for 20 years then suddenly not, it’s a big step.   
  
**Mike:** very underwhelming.   
  
**Stan:** Does that disappoint you?   
  
**Mike:** honestly, i don’t think i’m looking to be overwhelmed.   
  
**Stan:** I’m sure it will hit you in a paralyzing fashion sooner or later.   
  
**Mike:** is that supposed to reassure me?   
  
**Stan:** Do you want to be reassured? I can give you an “it’ll all be ok, Champ.” If you like.   
  
**Mike:** no. lol.   
  
**Mike:** what if it doesn’t hit me?   
  
**Stan:** It will.   
  
**Mike:** but it might not?   
  
**Stan:** Then it doesn’t.   
  
**Mike:** and then i’m stuck like this.   
  
**Stan:** Eh, progress is overrated. I’ve been 13 for the past 20 years and ended up ok.   
  
**Mike:** stan.   
  
**Mike:** you absolutely did not end up ok. :/   
  
**Stan:** Matter of perspective. Look if anyone has earned being underwhelmed, it’s you.   
  
**Mike:** thanks?   
  
**Stan:** Stop being obtuse. You know what I mean. Going forward, going backward, who gives a shit about that right now? You can just let yourself be, at least for a little while.   
  
**Mike:** that your professional opinion?   
  
**Stan:** I think we’ve established that I’m not a doctor.   
  
**Stan:** Take a break. Don’t let Richie drive you completely insane.   
  
**Mike:** too late.   
  


~

Sol  
  
**September 14,** 2:15 PM  
**Sol:** Hey, I’m heading to the library. Are you around?   
  
**September 14,** 3:15 PM  
**Sol:** The other librarian says they haven’t seen you in days. Everything ok?   
  
**September 16,** 4:15 PM  
**Sol:** Where are you, man?   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Rants (saintsrow2) for reading over these for me!  
> [iOS Message Work Skin/Code here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845/chapters/14729722)

**Author's Note:**

> Would Like to give a very special thank you to Rants (saintsrow2), Mars (playedwright), Lynne (beverlymarshians) and Leslie (lvslies) for cheering me on with this bit. I'm a baby who needs constant validation to finish anything and these guys really came through!! 
> 
> Come hang out with me on twitter: @chernobrough


End file.
